The Clock Strikes Twelve (5 page)

As soon as Phyllida had closed the drawing-room door behind her she picked up her long white skirt and ran like the wind, up the stair, along the passage and into her room which was at the end of it. Before she so much as switched on the light she was turning the key in the lock. Nobody was going to come and talk to her tonight, not for anything in the world. The door was locked, and locked it would remain.

She put on the light and looked about her with relief. After the crimson and mahogany of the rest of the house the room was charming—cream walls, and pale blue curtains with a delicate pattern of shells; quite modern furniture, silver-grey and polished only by hand; a silver bed with pale blue sheets and pillows and a blue and silver eiderdown; a grey unpatterned carpet. Everything in it was fresh and simple. Everything in it had been chosen by Grace Paradine.

Phyllida stood in the middle of the room hesitating. She was waiting for what she knew would come—the tap on the door, the voice speaking her name.

“Phyl—darling—won’t you let me in?”

She could see the handle turn and turn back again. She said quickly,

“Oh, is that you, Aunt Grace? I’m just rushing into bed—”

“I only wanted to say goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Aunt Grace.”

There was a pause before the footsteps withdrew. Phyllida took a long breath. Now she was really alone. The first thing she did was to switch on all the lights, one over the dressing-table, another lighting the long wall mirror. The room glowed—cream and silver and forget-me-not blue, and Phyllida in her white dress.

She stood looking into the glass and saw the room and herself as if she were looking through a narrow panel with a silver frame at another girl in another room. So much light and brilliance, so much colour and bloom. This wasn’t the girl she had seen in the glass every day for a year. Nineteen forty-two was going out, taking that girl with it. Phyllida never wanted to see her again. This was someone else. She looked and looked, and came up close to see into that other Phyllida’s eyes. And then all at once she turned away, went slowly over to the door, and put out all the lights except the shaded one beside the bed. Still slowly, she came over to the fire and sat down beside it on a small low chair. A quarter of an hour went by.

At last she got up, crossed over to the door, and opened it. The passage stretched before her, dark and empty, the bright overhead light switched off and just a twilight glow coming up from the well of the stairs. Everything was quiet. She stood listening, and could hear no sound at all.

When a full minute had gone by she came out of the room and, shutting the door noiselessly behind her, began to walk along the corridor. Two doors on this side, a bathroom and Grace Paradine’s bedroom and sitting-room on the other. Then a short flight to the central landing and wide steps going down into the hall.

On the bottom step she stood again and listened. One light burned in the hall all night. It showed the dining-room and drawing-room doors on her left, the library door and the baize door leading to what was called the west wing on the right. This west wing contained the set of rooms which James Paradine had arranged for his wife when she became an invalid—bedroom, sitting-room, bathroom, and dressing-room. They looked upon the terrace and the river, and were entered from a passage which lay between them and the library and billiard-room. At the far end a staircase led to the bedroom floor above. The room which had been Mrs. Paradine’s bedroom had never been occupied since her death, but James Paradine used the bathroom, slept in the dressing-room, and had turned the sitting-room into a study.

In this study he sat and waited, his eyes on the door, his ears alert to catch the slightest sound. On the writing-table in front of him an orderly arrangement of blotting-pad, pen-tray, writing-block, and the handsome silver inkstand presented to him by his employees on the occasion of his marriage. Across the corner of the table on his left the Times.

He had been sitting like this for some time almost without moving, when the faintest of faint taps sounded upon the door. It was so small a sound that it might easily have passed unnoticed. As if he had been waiting for it, James Paradine said,

“Come in!”

Impossible to say whether the appearance of Phyllida was a surprise to him or not. She came in almost with a rush, and then, as if the impetus had spent itself, stood leaning against the door, still holding to the handle.

“Can I speak to you, Uncle James?”

He was looking at her with that keen, bright look of his which had frightened her when she was a little girl. It came very near to frightening her now. Her breath quickened and her eyes had a startled look. James Paradine said,

“Certainly, Phyllida. Come and sit down. If you will just turn the key, we can make sure that we are not disturbed.”

She turned it, came to the other side of the table, and took the chair in which Elliot had sat an hour or two before. For a moment that wide, startled gaze remained fixed on James Paradine’s face. Then she flushed deeply and looked away.

His lips moved into a faint sarcastic smile. He said,

“Well, Phyllida—have you come to confess?”

She looked up again at that.

“I suppose I have, Uncle James.”

“And what are you going to confess?”

She said quickly,

“When you said that at dinner—you didn’t—you didn’t mean Elliot?”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—”

“Very proper sentiments, my dear. A wife should always be convinced of her husband’s integrity.”

As if the cynicism in his voice was a challenge, Phyllida’s head came up. She said with simplicity and pride,

“You think I haven’t the right to speak for Elliot any more. Perhaps I haven’t. But there are some things I know he wouldn’t do.”

James Paradine nodded.

“Quite right, my dear, and admirably put. To relieve your mind, I will assure you that I am not expecting a confession from your husband. Now what about yours?”

She looked down again.

“It isn’t really a confession—except that I think— I have been—I don’t know how to say it—”

“A fool?” suggested James Paradine.

He got a fleeting glance, startled again but with a faraway hint of rueful laughter.

“Perhaps—I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“And why to me? I thought Grace was the universal confidante.”

Phyllida said in a desperate voice,

“She cares too much. I want to talk about it to someone who doesn’t care—” She paused and added, “like that.”

James Paradine surveyed her with an odd glint of humour in his eyes.

“The detached point of view. I see. Well, go on.”

She said, “I don’t know what Aunt Grace told you last year—about Elliot and me.”

His black eyebrows lifted.

“Let me see—you came back from your honeymoon, spent Christmas in London with the Lionel Wrays, and came on to us on the thirtieth of December. We had our usual party on New Year’s Eve, and on the sixth—or was it the seventh—of January Grace informed me that you had parted.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said—” James Paradine’s voice was extremely dry—“to the best of my recollection she said that he had ‘proved himself utterly unworthy,’ and she intimated that you had grounds for a divorce. It seemed rather early in the day. May I ask whether you are going to tell me what really happened?”

Phyllida said, “Yes.” She lifted her eyes and looked at him. “I haven’t talked about it to anyone. People care too much, or they don’t care enough, and they want to give you advice.”

“A damnable habit,” said James Paradine. And then, “I appreciate the compliment.”

Phyllida kept her eyes on him.

“Aunt Grace has done everything for me—everything in the world. I’m very grateful. But sometimes when people love you so much it makes you feel as if you couldn’t move without hurting them. When I got engaged to Elliot I felt like that—I was hurting Aunt Grace, and I was going to hurt her more, and I couldn’t help it. She didn’t like him.”

James Paradine nodded.

“No, she didn’t like him. I may say, my dear, that there wasn’t a millionth chance of her liking anyone you proposed to marry.”

She had that startled look again.

“It made me very unhappy, but I couldn’t help it. We were married, and we went away on our honeymoon. Two days afterwards Aunt Grace got a letter which had been delayed in the post. It was from a friend of hers, that Mrs. Cranston whom I never liked, and it was about Elliot.”

“Women have a remarkable talent for interfering in other people’s affairs,” said James Paradine.

“She said she thought Aunt Grace ought to know that he—that he—”

“Yes, my dear?”

She had turned rather pale. She said,

“There was a motor accident. He had a girl with him and she was hurt. She was taken into the Cranstons’ house—that’s how Mrs. Cranston knew about it. Elliot was driving. Of course they had to give their names and addresses. The girl’s name was Maisie Dale. Mrs. Cranston said they’d been staying at a road-house.”

Mr. Paradine again raised his eyebrows.

“Is that all?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—I haven’t ever talked about it—it’s not very easy.”

“I see. Will you go on?”

She nodded.

“Yes. There was a lot more. I didn’t see the letter—I didn’t want to. I think she’s a horrid woman, but I think she just wrote down what people were saying—about Elliot and the girl. Aunt Grace was dreadfully upset. We were married. Mrs. Cranston said that Elliot was keeping up with the girl. I don’t know how she knew.”

“She’s the sort of woman who makes it her business to know,” said James Paradine. “By the way, was the girl badly hurt?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Cranston said she wasn’t—just knocked out. She said she was quite all right as soon as she came round.”

“I see. Go on.”

Phyllida coloured high. Her eyes avoided him.

“Aunt Grace—she wanted to find out—whether it was true. She got someone to make enquiries.”

“How extremely—enterprising.”

“She—she thought she was doing the right thing. When we came back I saw that she wasn’t happy. I didn’t know what to do about it—I thought it was just because I had gone away. Then one day she came into my room and told me. She read me Mrs. Cranston’s letter, and just as she was finishing it Elliot came in. You see, I hadn’t any time to think. It all happened like an accident does—one minute you’re all right and the next minute everything has crashed. Elliot said, ‘What’s going on?’ and Aunt Grace said, ‘Phyllida would like to know what you have to say about Maisie Dale.’ She didn’t even give me time to speak.”

“I suppose not.”

She was looking at him again, her eyes bright and her colour high.

“Elliot was very angry—they both were. Aunt Grace said, ‘You spent a week-end with her at Pedlar’s Halt, in June,’ and he said, ‘It’s none of your business if I did.’ Then she said, ‘Will you deny that you are keeping her?’ and he said, ‘That isn’t your business either.’ Then she said, ‘Will you deny that you visited her only last week, on the afternoon of December 26th?’ and he said, ‘I won’t deny anything. And now will you get out of here and leave me to talk to my wife!’”

“And did she—get out?”

Phyllida shook her head.

“She said, ‘You think you can talk her round.’ ”

“And what did you say, Phyllida?”

“I didn’t say anything—I didn’t say anything at all. It sounds idiotic, but even when I go over it in my mind—and I’ve been over it hundreds of times—I can’t think of anything to say. Everything goes numb—I don’t seem to feel anything, or to want anything, or to be able to speak. I just felt as if I had come to the end of everything. It still feels like that when I think about it. I could hear them saying dreadful things to each other. And then Elliot said, ‘I’m off. Are you coming, Phyllida?’ Aunt Grace came and put her arms round me and said, ‘No,’ and Elliot went out of the room and banged the door, and—it was very stupid of me—I fainted. I thought he would come back, but he didn’t, and I thought he would write, but he didn’t. And Aunt Grace said he had gone to her.”

“Are you sure he didn’t write?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I should have expected him to write.”

“He didn’t.”

“I think I should ask him about that if I were you.”

She said, “Ask him?”

“Why certainly. Now that he is here, you surely don’t intend to let him go again without talking things over?”

“Oh—”

James Paradine leaned back in his chair and contemplated her.

“The whole affair has been a little totalitarian up to date, hasn’t it? The prosecution very ably represented, but no counsel for the defence, and the accused not given a hearing.”

Phyllida said “Oh—” again. And then, “Uncle James, let me go on. I want to tell you about tonight.”

“By all means.”

“When Elliot came into the room—”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’ve been very unhappy—I didn’t know one could be as unhappy as that—but when Elliot came into the room it all went. As soon as I saw him it all went away. I was frightfully happy.”

“So I observed.”

“Oh—”

“My dear, you can’t fly all your flags and not expect anyone to notice them.”

They were flying now. She said in a soft, sighing voice,

“It didn’t seem to matter any more—I just didn’t care.” Then, very earnestly, “That’s why I had to come and talk to you. Is it just because I’m so tired of being unhappy? I mean, is it just letting go and not caring about the things one ought to care about? That’s what I want to know. You see, Aunt Grace cares too much, and I care too much, and I don’t know whether Elliot cares at all. Perhaps he doesn’t now.”

“I should ask him,” said James Paradine briskly.

He leaned forward, pulled out one of the writing-table drawers, and produced a tin box with a patriotic design upon the lid. Opened, it disclosed boiled sweets in variety. James selected a lemon drop and offered the box to Phyllida.

“Have a lollipop, my dear, and stop thinking about yourself. There’s Elliot, you know. Even accused persons have rights—and feelings. I should give him a hearing. Someone’s been at these sweets of mine—I’ve been suspecting it for some time. Albert? No, I don’t think so—too human a failing. I often have serious doubts as to whether Albert is really human. Whom would you suspect? What’s the name of the apple-cheeked child who turns puce when I meet her in a passage?”